


The Long Way Home

by GlassEyes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dominant/Submissive, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Humiliation, unnegotiated d/s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21716581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassEyes/pseuds/GlassEyes
Summary: It's 2007, and at 28, Elias French has a number of things in his possession: box-office hits, two houses, the best agent in the business, a brand-new iPhone, and Jack, a 32-year-old struggling musician who's willing to let him do absolutely anything to him, short of letting him call him his boyfriend.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	The Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little original fic that I wanted to get out of my head–I have no idea if anyone actually reads original fic on this site, but I've had these characters and this dynamic kicking around in my head for a few weeks and wanted to start to get this out of my system. Next chapter will be in Jack's perspective.

"Are you..."

Jack exhales shakily, his hips canting up, his grip on the chair white-knuckled underneath him. Elias, kneeling in front of him has hitched one of his legs up for easier access, foot resting on his shoulder, and there's a dull sort of pain there as Jack presses down against it, his entire body taut, tense like a bowstring. His eyes are squeezed shut. "Are you _done_ yet," Jack finishes finally, miserably, brokenly. 

Elias has been fingering him for an hour, or close to it. It _feels_ like it, at least, with how much his wrist is aching–no amount of Hollywood body boot camps were enough to prepare him for a prolonged bit of digital stimulation, apparently. "Yeah, just gimme a sec," he says distractedly, his eyes dropping to where his fingers disappear inside of him, slick with lube, Jack's entire half in more or less of a state. He's come three times, without Elias so much as touching his cock–hard again, flushed pink where it rests against his belly. _Everywhere_ is flushed, practically...or realistically, a good third of him; it's crept down into his chest, just past his stupid, slutty tattoos, the pair of swallows. "When you got that tattoo," he asks, nonchalantly, over the slick squelch of his fingers as they slide in and out–in and out. "Was it because you _wanted_ a target for guys to come on?"

"Asshole," Jack chokes out, big hazel eyes open now, wet with tears. Elias isn't quite sure if that's in response to his comment or his general state of being after coming three times, but either way, he feels a twinge of guilt, inexplicably. Maybe he'd gotten that dumb fucking tattoo in honor of his dead grandpa, or something. Elias doesn't know. He'd never asked. 

"I want to do it later," he explains, anyway. He angles his wrist a little bit differently on the next push in, and he's rewarded with a choked sob, Jack bucking his hips up as the chair rattles; Elias steadies him with a hand to his thigh, digging his fingers in to keep him still. " _Maybe_ ," he amends. "I might want to come in you." Jack's face falls a little, and Elias can practically see his various trains of thought marching across his forehead: if Elias wants to come in him, that means that Elias will be fucking him, and as oversensitive as he is, it probably won't be pleasant. Or _too_ pleasant, maybe. Elias pauses with his fingers inside, as deep as he can get them, pressing in in a way that makes Jack hiss and squirm. "What do you think I should do?"

Surprise flickers across Jack's face–then wariness, then caution. "On me," he ventures, hesitantly, guessing at the right answer. That dismay from before, Elias thinks. He asks Elias to pull out, mostly, and it's usually because he doesn't want to deal with the mess, especially if it's some kind of quickie, _especially_ if it's right before Jack has a gig to get through, which is unfortunate because that's when Elias especially likes to come in him: so that he can lurk at the back of the room in some shitty bar or 50-cap venue and think about his come leaking out of him as he watches Jack play the guitar. 

It's a pity that Jack hasn't made it yet. It's a pleasure to watch him perform, genuinely, even if Elias doesn't give much of a shit about music–and it's only like, sixty percent a pleasure due to the fact that he's been letting Elias fuck him for the past six months, ever since Elias had wandered into one of his gigs during something of a bar crawl, more drunk and disorderly than he usually allows himself to get after landing an audition. He wonders, then, if Jack ever gets jealous. Jack doesn't give much of a shit about movies, although he makes an effort, half-heartedly, whenever Elias drags him to one of his things, but he sees the mixture of relief and frustration when Elias invariably picks up the check, how the permanent pair of dark circles under his eyes halfway disappear when he spends more than a few days at Elias's apartment in New York, or the house in LA, as opposed to Jack's own shithole apartment in Chinatown. 

He makes a mental note to ask later. Right now feels too mean. 

"I don't think so," Elias says, finally, as he starts up again, even if that's also mean, and that's enough of a distraction that it wipes the glare from Jack's face pretty quick. "It's not as messy if I do it in you."

"That doesn't make any sense," Jack manages through gritted teeth. "Fuck _off_. Why do you even ask if you're not going to listen to me–"

"Because I like to know what you're thinking about," Elias tells him, and it's true. If he could have any sort of superpower–anything in the world–he'd want to be able to read Jack's mind specifically, which would make him a pretty useless superhero in terms of his capacity to protect humanity, _unless_ Jack happened to be a supervillain, which is a prospect beyond comprehension. Jack's an easy read, generally, but even if Elias were able to guess at ninety of his thoughts that ten percent would drive him crazy. It's greedy of him, maybe, but he wants all of it. " _You_ just don't want me to fuck you right now. How about this. Here's another little survey for you," Elias proposes, reaching up to push Jack's cock with the flat of his palm, lightly. It's enough to make him whimper, and _that's_ enough of a pretty little distraction that he loses his train of thought. Almost. "Whatever you say, I'll do it this time, I swear," he continues, refocusing. "Either you let me fuck you, right now–you let me come in you, you _ask_ me to, I'll get you off–or I won't fuck you, and you're not getting off."

And Jack _is_ , thankfully, an easy read, because it's obvious that he thinks it's a trick question. Elias can see everything that's warring for his attention–how hard he is, how overstimulated, how much he wants to come, how much he knows it'll hurt. If Elias is telling the truth. If–if Jack wants Elias to fuck him–he ought to ask for the reverse, so that he can trick Elias into it. Another hesitation, and as it turns out, that's precisely what he settles on. 

"You've been doing this for an hour, so _no_ , jackass, I'm not gonna let you fuck me," Jack says, unsteadily, his voice catching with another push in; it gets Elias another steady drip of precome from Jack's cock, pooling on his abdomen. "I have things to do, believe it or not–"

Well, that's that. "Alright, then." Elias ignores the rush of pleasure at even the thought of Jack's choice and pulls his fingers out, earning a squirm, and wipes the lube off onto Jack's thigh. Jack's fucked out and struggling to catch up; confusion flashes across his face as Elias sets his leg down and straightens, getting to his feet. God, his knees ache, he thinks, as he bends to pick up Jack's clothes, abandoned on the floor. 

"Wait." Impossibly, Jack sounds _more_ desperate. "Hold on a sec–"

"Get dressed," Elias says, cutting him off. Jack catches the shirt and pants that he tosses at him and stares, brows drawn together. _There's_ a flash of anger as he sits up, nearly defiant–

–but he doesn't bother to try to touch himself. He glowers at him instead, his face disappearing briefly as he pulls on his black t-shirt and then the eye contact breaking, just fleetingly, as he gingerly slides on his boxers. It's uncomfortable to even _watch_ him put his jeans on, given how hard he is, but that's his own damn fault for how tight he likes them, and Elias doesn't have an ounce of sympathy for him, although he watches him struggle through the process with something approaching fondness. It's gone from his face as soon as Jack emerges victorious from his battle with his fly and looks back up at him. "You gotta get rid of that before we go," he tells him, arms crossed, nodding at Jack's obvious hard-on. "Or else everyone's going to think you're some kind of pervert."

"I'm trying," Jack groans; he slumps back into the chair, face tucked into the crook of his elbow, as he tries his best to will it away. "It's harder than it looks."

"Do some math problems in your head," Elias suggests absently, pausing to check his phone. "Do you want to get coffee on the way home? There's a place around the corner."

Jack is silent, either mulling that over or doing some math, per Elias's suggestion. Or both. "Yeah," he says, finally. "I just need a minute." And Elias can give him that. 

* * *

Jack hasn't gotten used to a number of life's fringe pleasures–the kind that tend to rear their heads when people have too much money to know what to do with–and so he's invariably a little bewildered when _let's get coffee_ translates into stopping at the roasting house by Elias's place and not going through the drive thru at Dunkin' Donuts. Elias, genuinely, would rather die. Fancy coffee is one of his few allowances to the celebrity culture that he's ensconced himself in place the past five years, even if it means that he has to wear sunglasses indoors like a douchebag in order to indulge in it, like he is now. 

"Six dollars for a coffee," Jack says, boggling at the menu. "Jesus Christ." 

"That's LA," Elias says with a shrug. Most of Jack's desperation–from all of fifteen minutes ago–has been smoothed over, and it's a little bit remarkable, how quickly he's managed to regain his composure. Still, there are some telltale signs; Elias can still see the angry red marks in the meat of one of his palms from where he'd clenched his fists, digging his nails into the skin, and his hairline looks a little damp with sweat at his temples. He's lost the hard-on, as far as Elias can tell, even, which is great, because the last thing he wants to deal with is his publicist calling him up with questions about how much time in public he spends with men with visible erections.

"It all tastes like the same shit," Jack says as they move up in line–quietly, like he's worried that the barista will hear. 

"I don't know," Elias says, scratching at his chin. "They do a lavender latte here that's pretty good."

At the words 'lavender latte', Jack looks genuinely affronted. "What an embarrassing thing to have to say you want. Like, in _public_ ," he says. "Is that what happens when you become a Hollywood bigshot? Regular coffee's not interesting enough for you"

"It's a coffee order, Jack," Elias explains, patiently. "Not a demonstration of my character. I'm secure enough in my masculinity that I don't need to pay my barista seven and a half dollars to validate it."

"If you say so." 

It's their turn, and Jack gives the barista his order: iced coffee, black, unsweetened. Elias orders the lavender latte, half out of spite, and half because it's really Jack's loss, because it's an interesting departure from plain old coffee, even if it tastes a little bit like perfume. Elias pays for the two of them without saying anything just to head off Jack's bitching about the total, although as he hands his card to the cashier, he can feel him fidget next to him, clearly uncomfortable. He always gets weird about stuff like this, Elias covering him, when realistically, logically, it makes _sense_ , given the disparity between their respective incomes, given the fact that fifteen bucks is probably his food budget for a few days. Elias hasn't ever really inquired, but he's pretty sure his bank account is overdrawn more than not. 

"I bet they just put purple food coloring in it," Jack says, pulling him out of his thoughts once they're out of earshot of the barista, as they move to await their drinks at the end of the counter. "I bet it's just your brain telling you that it tastes different from a _normal_ latte–"

"Elias!"

Elias turns to find Molly Kalinowski, a thousand percent more mundane-looking than the last time he'd seen her, although in his defense, he'd last seen her on set with a full face of makeup in 18th century eveningwear. Now she's wearing a ratty t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of glasses; it looks like she's wearing someone else's jacket from how it fits her. She and Jack could be siblings, honestly–same pitch black hair, same small frame, same hazel eyes–hers on the green side, his more like honey–how she tends to talk more out of one side of her mouth. He's always _polite_ to his costars, but he's decidedly neutral on most of them. Molly is one of the exceptions, because she's wonderful. 

"Molly," he says, breaking into a smile. He pulls her into a one-armed hug–he can sense Jack at the fringes of his awareness, lurking in the background, hesitant. "How've you been?"

"I thought you said you were sick of me," she says, returning his grin. 

"I was just playing hard to get," he says. "I'm a huge fan, actually."

"Do you want a picture?" she asks dryly, before her gaze falls on Jack, behind him, and Elias realizes he's being rude. He reaches back to steer him forward with a gentle grip on his arm; it's unclear if Jack recogizes her, from the uncertainty written across his face. He'd seen their movie, but if Elias remembers correctly, he'd fallen asleep halfway through, his head dipping until it rested heavily on Elias's shoulder. 

"This is Jack," he says. "He's my boyfr–"

–but "I'm his friend, Jack," Jack says at the same time, and how they've diverged hits them both belatedly. Jack looks startled, and Elias stares. He hadn't meant to say boyfriend, he's never thought about it, but logically, it's what makes the most sense, doesn't it–

"I know who you are," Molly says; if she's noticed the conflict, she doesn't mention it, and Elias is achingly grateful, although Molly's eyes linger on his face before she turns her attention back to Jack. "You got a writeup on Pitchfork last month. You're in that band, what's it called, that played at that art installation in Noho."

"Oh, yeah!" Elias can _feel_ Jack relax, just from the grip he has on his arm; clearly, he's pleased. It's not often that Jack gets recognized. Elias can count the number of times it's happened on one hand. Usually, _he's_ the one getting recognized. "I, uh, didn't think anyone would read that. Yeah. Reckoning, we're called, we totally lucked into that gig, so."

Elias can remember it, actually. Jack had invited him along; he hadn't been given a plus one, officially, but they'd let him take Elias along when they'd heard who he was. Jack had been in top form that night, even if he'd twisted his ankle accidentally kicking over an amp at the end of the night; when Elias had fucked him in the back room of the gallery, quick and hasty, he'd had to be gentle with him, for once. When Pitchfork had praised their performance in passing in their coverage of the night, Jack had been over the moon–although he'd played it off, Elias found a printed-out copy of the article tucked away in his bedside drawer. 

It's the kind of thing that Molly would have paid attention to, anyway. She's about twelve times cooler than Elias is, objectively, although Elias can't quite tuck away the ugly pang of jealousy at Jack's obvious elation at being recognized. _I found him first_ , he wants to say, but Jack is still talking.

"The guy from Caribou was supposed to do it," Jack explains. "But he had to drop out an hour before the show because he had the flu. Apparently he was puking _everywhere_ , so–"

"I'll take your word for it," Molly says, dryly. "I'm surprised that Elias knows about you, he's like four years behind everything. How'd you guys meet?"

"He got drunk and heckled me at a bar I was doing an open mic at," Jack says, which is more or less an accurate retelling of the events, and Elias shrugs when Molly looks back at him. 

"I wanted him to play Free Bird," he says, picking up Jack's coffee and passing it to him before picking up his own. "He wanted to play indie rock bullshit. Water under the bridge, though."

"Right. Now he only heckles me when he's sober," Jack explains, reaching for Elias's drink as he's mid-sip. "Let me try."

Elias obliges him, and watches him drink; watches him make a face, like he's been poisoned, and smiles. "More or less."

* * *

It's not until they get back to Elias's place later that day that Elias comes on Jack's tattoo, like he'd promised before. Elias keeps Jack on his knees in front of him in the kitchen, his free hand still fisted tightly in Jack's hair from when he'd gripped it in order to shove him down as soon as he'd tossed his keys in the bowl on the counter. With his other hand, he jerks himself off, not bothering to take his time, being efficient about it. Jack has his eyes shut tightly–from the pain, maybe, but Elias feels a twinge of irritation. 

"Eyes open," Elias says, through gritted teeth, and Jack makes a face, but he obeys, and that second of eye contact is enough to push him over the edge. The first few pulses hit Jack's face, the rest his chest, dripping down the pair of swallows Elias had remarked on before. Panting hard, Elias releases his grip on his hair in order to slump back against the kitchen counter, his heart pounding as he lazily works himself through the aftershocks. 

He takes in the sight in front of him. Jack on his knees, come on his face, a little bit in his hair, the rest on his chest. Something that Elias can't quite give word to eases up, something that's been worrying at him that he doesn't quite understand, and he reaches out to drag two fingers through the mess on Jack's cheek, pushing the excess into Jack's mouth when he opens up obligingly. His cheeks hollow as he sucks his fingers clean, his gaze skittering away, and there's another dull throb of arousal as that, shooting through him in a way that makes him wince. 

"Ought to take a picture," he says, hoarsely. "Put that on fucking Pitchfork."

Jack grazes at his finger with his teeth, shooting him an annoyed glare, and Elias pulls his hand back, busying himself instead with putting himself back together and zipping up his jeans. Jack takes a second there, sitting back on his heels, and Elias watches him, wondering what's going through his head, before Jack reaches for a dishtowel and gets to his feet. 

"Use a paper towel," Elias says, annoyed, but apparently Jack's had it with taking orders for the present moment, because he just gives him a look and wets the dishtowel at the sink before giving himself a cursory wipedown. Elias ought to have had him lick it all up, like he had with the excess on his face. Instead, he takes the dishtowel from him once he's finished so that he can go toss it in the laundry room.

When he returns, Jack is still shirtless, now drinking some water, and Elias watches the line of his throat as he swallows hungrily. He nearly drains the glass before he sets it down, and he's starved for air because of it, exhaling shakily. 

"Go up and have a shower," Elias tries, and apparently that's more of an appealing prospect than using a paper towel is, because Jack pauses to mull that over. He's uncharacteristically quiet, and it makes Elias wonder–if it was the Pitchfork comment, maybe, or something else entirely. "You can have a beer after," he offers, after a pause. 

"No way? Thanks, dad," Jack says dryly, setting his glass in the sink. At least it got him talking–and he seems to obey even if he'd mouthed off about it, padding off in the direction of the stairs.

"I'm four years younger than you," Elias calls, after him. "That doesn't make any sense."

There's no answer. Elias cocks his head, listening for the creak of the stairs as Jack mounts them, and goes to put Jack's glass away in the dishwasher once he hears it. 

* * *

Ten minutes, then twenty, and Jack still hasn't reappeared downstairs. Elias busies himself with cleaning up the kitchen until he's run out of things to do with his hands and he's forced to confront the looming problem of figuring out whatever the fuck it is that Jack is doing upstairs. He's not in the shower anymore, surely–he doesn't really take long showers, even if Elias's is top of the line, just like everything else in his absurdly expensive house. Maybe he'd inexplicably taken enough offense to Elias's suggestion about the paper towels that he'd escaped through his bedroom window. Elias glances out the window and thinks about Jack climbing down the trellis outside; if he'd be able to manage it without breaking his leg. Probably not. 

Maybe he's just not in the mood for a beer, which would be a first. As Elias mounts the stairs, he thinks back to their encounter with Molly– _I'm his friend, Jack_. That doesn't quite feel right. But now that he thinks about it, although it's what he'd defaulted to instinctively, boyfriend doesn't quite feel right either. 

The mystery is solved relatively easily: Elias finds Jack in his bed. He'd taken that shower, evidently, judging from the dampness from his wet hair on the pillow, and then gotten as far as putting his boxers on and a t-shirt before climbing into bed. Elias had just made it this morning, and it's already been rendered into chaos–the coverlet kicked aside, two pillows making steady progress down the length of the bed, along the curve of Jack's body. It's a king-size, and it dwarfs Jack. He looks smaller than he usually does, curled up in under a heap of blankets, and something about the sight of it makes Elias's heart ache. 

"It's only 8:30," he says, approaching the bed. It dips as he sits next to where Jack's lying, Elias's hip tucked neatly into the s-curve of where Jack's belly meets the his bent legs, close enough so that he can feel the heat coming off of him, when he inhales, when he exhales. At first he thinks that Jack is asleep, but finally, he cracks one eye open to look up at him. "You're going to be up at like, 3am."

"I won't," Jack mumbles. "Once you hit 30, this is it, dude. Lights out at 8. I'm old."

"You're not," Elias says a little more softly than he ought to. He reaches out to card his fingers through Jack's hair; Jack leans into his touch, the bare skin of his shoulders slipping free from the comforter. Elias studies him, before speaking again, impulsively. "What does your tattoo mean? The one on your chest."

Jack rolls over onto his back to look at him, a little suspiciously; when he can't suss out the question behind Elias's question, he answers. "It means that at one point, I was sixteen and had a fake ID, and I was desperate to get a tattoo, and I picked the first thing I liked out of the book they had at the shop, which was on the third page," he says, battling a yawn. Elias grins. 

"How many pages were there?"

"I don't know, like a hundred," Jack says. "I wanted to do it quick because my dad was going to kill me if I came back late." 

Elias's hand slides down from Jack's hair to catch his jaw in his hand, and turn his face to the light coming from the lamp on the bedside table so that he can study him. It's a minute before he speaks again. "I wish I knew you when you were sixteen," he says, and he means for it to come off in a lighthearted way, but it's a swing and a miss, devastatingly so. Jack blinks, and something flickers across his face that Elias can't quite name before it's gone again, just as fast. 

"No you don't," he says, keeping it lighthearted, which eases some of the tension. "I was an asshole. And you would've been like, twelve. I would have been a terrible influence."

"Don't sell yourself short," Elias returns dryly, releasing him in favor of bending down in order to untie his shoes and toe them off. "You're still an asshole."

"Well, I like the asshole that I am now more than the asshole I was back then," Jack returns, as he reaches up to rub at his jaw where Elias had touched him. "You would agree if you'd have seen me then."

There's no use in arguing, here, so Elias is left to imagine it: Jack at sixteen, smaller than he is now, absent of the bit of muscle he'd put on as he'd gotten older. No tattoos. Probably skinny and pale and with a shitty haircut, twice as desperate to prove himself as he is now. "Shove over," he says, finally, brushing his knuckles against a cheekbone.

Jack obeys, but not without complaint. "You're 28," he says, wriggling over to the other side of the bed, taking a pillow with him as he goes. "It's 8:30. Like you said. You're an Emmy-nominated actor. Shouldn't you be out, like, doing coke in the Hollywood Hills?"

"I'm not cool enough to go to those parties," Elias says as he shucks off his jeans and peels back the blanket so that he can climb in next to Jack in just his t-shirt. He settles in the middle of the bed, wrapping an arm around Jack's waist and tugging him in close, his back flush up against Elias's front. 

"Poor baby," Jack says absently, and Elias can tell that he's already drifting off. He pushes a hand up underneath his t-shirt, presses his palm to his chest, right over his heart so that he can keep track of its steady beat. 

What are we doing here? Elias wants to ask, but in the moment that feels painfully cliched; a line from a film he might have starred in, not a line from his real life. He shuts his eyes, ducks his head so that he can press his nose to the back of Jack's neck. He smells like Elias's shampoo and conditioner, and suddenly, fervently, Elias wishes that he could keep him that way, always like this. 


End file.
